SHUCKS FROM SHINOLA
A man who gives a good account of himself is probably lying.
George Orwell
Pushing thirty, I was new in town, a college dropout with resume to suit. I did possess a private glider rating though, which was all that mattered. The local FBO had one old training glider and acres of grass, so I swung a deal with Gabe, the proprietor, to mow weekly, pump gas daily, and wash airplanes or whatever else needed doing – for free use of the glider and two (count 'em, 2!) tows a day. An enterprising high-schooler might scoff at such a gig, but for me at the time it was a dream job.Second season, Gabe wished to renegotiate. He needed a body to (legally) hop rides and defray insurance premiums, and being within earshot made me the top candidate. Cutting back on those other chores? I could adjust to that. Was I commercial level? Hardly. But what luck! The designated examiner in that region happened to be... Gabe. He assured me that the checkride was only a formality – he'd even do it for nothing.In technical terms there's little difference between private and commercial glider ratings. Required minimums of experience for either can scarcely prepare anyone for the countless vicissitudes of an ordinary soaring day. (Both levels should have much higher minimums if you ask me, so don't.) Private pilots aren't supposed to be especially skilled, just safe. 'Commercial' signifies responsibility for more people and potentially far greater numbers of takeoffs, hours aloft and landings, all demanding higher proficiency. The ability to make short precision landings under duress, for example, is something commercial pilots must be very sure of - especially commercial glider pilots.Gabe all but promised the checkride would be easy, and it really was despite my worst efforts. As we turned final approach he commanded, "Put it on the numbers." By that of course he meant to touch down on the big white ‘18’ at the north end. Simple enough. But being unsure (read insecure), I worried that he meant to land short of the pavement and stop on the numbers... With seconds to play I asked for verification, but whatever I said was so semantically maladroit it caused Gabe to shout, "What?"Oh boy. Late final, time was up.“Just put it on the numbers!” he repeated."Alright." With a mental shrug, half hoping I'd failed already I muttered, "We'll try for both."Gifted a strong headwind, my approach was very steep and the impact more than a little 'firm', locked wheel squealing and steel nose skid throwing sparks. Every bit as loud and ugly as it was accurate. Gabe snarled and leapt from the back seat drawing a lungful of burnt rubber, vaporized brake metal and molten asphalt as he raised his hand – only for emphasis I hoped, 'cause I was still strapped in...Put yourself in these shoes: If you passed you'd get to fly for free even more. Fail and you're probably fired to boot – no more flying at all. He's mad so it looks like a bust for sure. But you did put it on the numbers, darn it! The only thing to do now was know the truth and declare it. I pointed straight down to the white paint under his feet. “You said on the numbers!”Gabe froze when he recognized that we had indeed touched down – and stopped – ON them. He peered at me like a scuba diver discovering some strange new species, then started to laugh but had to cough his guts out first.I'd unbuckled by then but not gotten out. When he bent over double I almost jumped out to offer CPR, but he was only wiping his chin and gasping for breath so I stayed a respectful put. Did this mean it was cool, I wondered, or was he laughing at me? I kind of needed to know.Then the scuba face again, and another burst of guffaws. No doubt you've been there, when somebody's fit of laughter overwhelms everything and you can't help laughing too, even while you think you shouldn't. In one landing I'd made the examiner curse and laugh, demonstrated zero professionalism and dubious understanding – and now I'm laughing? If Gabe somehow squoze me through this regulatory sieve, the fact that he could still fire and/or ground me at any later time was immaterial. I was his if I got to fly. If already busted however, my laughing along would only deepen the embarrassment and I was hoping to stop as soon as that became possible. Ha ha.So? His eyes were teary red when he could breathe again and a sliver of fear stung his mirth, for what he was getting himself into. "Okay, you win," he growled, "but never land that way again, okay?" He slugged my shoulder. "Unless you need to."Now climb outta there and help me look for damage."Ah, simpler times!